


to envy the rose

by bonebo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Brainwashing, Low-key torture, M/M, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 19:39:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9841007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: Since the day he was taken from Overwatch--the day his new, true life began--Project: 76 has been preparing for this one moment.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [therealumbrammortis](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=therealumbrammortis).



Since the day he was taken from Overwatch--the day his new, true life began--Project: 76 has been preparing for this one moment. 

_“Can you see the target?”_ the voice in his earpiece hisses, as 76 ducks behind the closest communications building. Before him, the base of Watchpoint: Gibraltar stretches out along the rocky coast, its mighty towers scraping a sky lit by the bloody, dying light of dusk. 76 stalks up along the back of the building, and crouches behind a set of fuel tanks to keep him hidden as he brings up the pulse rifle. He can see the lower entrance to the Watchpoint in front of him, neatly tucked away within the mountain. The sparse light gleams off the two cameras positioned at the door. 

Overhead, a proud blue flag flutters in the light sea breeze, emblazoned with the mark of world peace. Two shots later, and the cameras are made useless.

_“76. I asked you a question. Can you see the target, or not?”_

There’s a sharp, electrical surge that pulses through his visor, making 76 wince as it rattles his teeth; when the pain has diminished enough for him to breathe again, he grits out, “Not yet. I’ve scouted the entire outside area. Target must be within the base.” 76 straightens up, rifle still in ready position. “Infiltrating now.”

_“Hurry. We do not have much time.”_

“Yes, sir.”

A keycard stolen from one of the dock workers he’d gunned down earlier makes the thick door slide open. Immediately, there’s the soft sound of old classical music playing within, and 76 is glad for the noise as his boots thud quietly as he advances up the ramp. The hiss of his rifle reloading is painfully loud in the small, confined tunnel, but covered nicely by a rising crescendo of frantic-sounding strings.

Inside, the base is dimly lit; there’s orange running lights along the stairs, floodlights shining down in a rim around the ceiling. A holographic global map glows with a golden light in the middle of the room, dotted with blue waypoints, lines of notes and details shimmering in the air. To his right, there’s two black suits of armor, shiny and new; to his left, a chalkboard covered in scrawl, stacks of monitors, and a bigger map with large blue x’s gleaming proudly. 

It’s surely confidential information, infinitely interesting to the right party, but 76 isn’t interested in any of it.

What he’s come here for is something far more valuable. 

There’s a man, in the far right corner of the room. 76 can just barely see his silhouette from behind the coarse rock that serves as the base’s back wall. He’s got a beanie on his head, with the faintest hint of coarse brown curls peeking from the sides of it; the duster he wears is a vivid blue, the blue of Overwatch, dirty and slightly frayed along the bottom where it licks at the heels of the man’s boots.

“Target in my sights,” 76 whispers, raising his pulse rifle. He slides the hammer along the side of the gun to activate the helix rockets, and feels their vibration along warm metal as they power up. 

_“Well, what are you waiting for? Take the shot, 76!”_

He pulls the trigger.

The rockets blast into the side of the wall, just beside the man’s shoulder. As 76 rushes forward he tracks the motion of the body, watches the man be thrown helplessly against the rock, strike it hard. His skull bounces off the granite, and by the time 76 reaches him he’s sprawled on his back on the floor, his body still save for the faint rise and fall of his chest. His eyes are closed, scarred face slack; blood trickles out from under the beanie’s side, sluggishly coursing down the hard line of his jaw.

 _“Strike-Commander Reyes?”_ a voice overhead asks--artificial, 76 can tell. But urgent. He curses under his breath and hauls the body up over his shoulder. _“Strike-Commander Reyes, I’m sounding the alarm now.”_

76 rolls his eyes. It doesn’t matter. 

He half-drags the Commander back down the ramp he’d come up; the door is closed again, but another blast of rockets grants him a big enough hole to work with. He crawls through and drags the body out after him, and taps at his earpiece as he sprints toward the cover of the comms building again.

“76, reporting in.”

 _“Yes?”_ The voice on the other end of the line is impatient, curt. _“Give me good news, project.”_

“Target aquired,” 76 tells him, and walks toward the edge of the coast to greet the airship. 

-x-

Gabriel Reyes, Strike-Commander of the world’s most powerful peacekeeping organization, the brains and most of the brawn behind ending the Omnic Crisis and ensuring victory for all of humanity, opens his eyes to find himself eclipsed in total darkness.

The panic is immediately there, a steady thrum under his beating heart; but he quells it, for now, instead runs through a checklist in his head. A routine he follows, every time he finds himself in this kind of situation.

The first thing he notices is that he’s strung up by his arms--there’s pain at his wrists, the cold and pinching bite that he knows to be chains. His shoulders ache with the strain of holding his entire body--with a deepset kind of throbbing that suggests he’s been hanging here for some time--so he scrabbles at the floor, finds he can just barely brush his toes against the ground. There’s dust there, dirt under his skin; more chains, cold around his ankles. A quick test proves what he was afraid of--he can’t lift his feet up more than a few inches, with how they’re bound, tied to the floor. But if he stretches as much as he can, he finds he can just barely support himself on the tips of his toes, and though keeping his balance like that is tricky, it does serve to alleviate some of the ache in his arms. 

He’s cold--naked, except for the boxers that cling to his waist, but the realization doesn’t humiliate him like it did three kidnappings ago. The only other fabric he can feel is something coarse--burlap, he thinks, stinking of old iron--over his head, scratching at the end of his nose when he moves. 

He wonders how long he’s been gone. Surely the base was alerted, when he was captured--he hopes so, because all he can remember of his attack is a rush of electric blue, the shrill whine of rockets and the deafening noise of them colliding with rock. He wonders about who had taken him, imagines the build of the body strong enough to carry him out of Gibraltar, because it keeps him from wondering, instead, of how long it will be before he’s rescued.

The hydraulic hiss of a door opening brings his thoughts to a sudden halt. Gabriel swallows past a dry throat and braces himself, mentally, for the barrage he’s sure is coming: what will his captor ask first, he wonders? About Overwatch’s next base of operations--about Blackwatch, the undercover ops group led by Gabriel’s own partner? He expects a litany of questions, and starts to piece together his answers to himself, mind running a mile a minute to come up with what he wants to say.

He isn’t expecting the punch.

It’s swift and silent and strong, a blow to his lower ribs that has Gabriel yelping in surprise, his body swinging from the chain holding him aloft with the force of the blow. On instinct, he tries to jerk his legs up, to kick out blindly; but the chains around his ankles hold fast, only make him hiss as they scrape along his skin.

Helpless to do anything else, he clenches his fists against the cold air and tries to steel his muscles, harden them against the attack that suddenly assaults his body--it’s a flurry of punches, all to his ribs, all meant to leave lasting damage. Whoever is assaulting him knows where to hit to hurt him the most, because one second Gabriel’s gritting his teeth against the punches to his gut and then the next is crying out in alarm as blows come dangerously close to his spine, pommeling and threatening to break the vulnerable floating ribs nestled under the walls of muscle there. It’s a struggle to breathe through the attack, to keep his head and not panic under the blindsiding pain that blooms all across his torso--harder, still, to keep from making noise, to endure the beating in stony silence.

But Gabriel Reyes’s life has been a study in overcoming the difficult. When the punches finally stop, the only noise in the room is the sound of his laboured, wheezing breaths; he bites down on the moans and groans that gather behind his teeth, swallows them back down like bile.

He’s had worse. He knows this will not break him.

But it takes an active effort to breathe through the pain in his ribs--each inhale feels like raking shards of broken glass along his lungs, up his throat, and he fervently hopes that none of his ribs have splintered apart or pierced anything important. The breaks and bruises already sinking into his skin are something his SEP-induced advanced healing can restore relatively quickly, but he’d rather not think about trying to survive captivity with a hole in his lung, or while bleeding out against the wall of his diaphragm.

Over the din of his own wheezing breaths, Gabriel can just barely hear another noise--a shuffle, the sound of boot treads over concrete. His assaulter paces around him slow and cat-like, and Gabriel can all but feel the eyes, raking up and down his vulnerable figure to find the next best place to strike. He braces again, halting his breath to tense up the muscles of his abdomen and shoulders, stretching his toes out to take as much of the weight off his aching arms as he can.

One breath in; one breath out. Slow, measured, calm, as he waits for the next wave of pain.

But it doesn’t come. 

He hangs there in the cold, toes straining against the concrete, and hears the footfalls of his assailant come to a stop. Again he braces--thinks of the blue of a summer’s sky and Overwatch’s blazing sigil, of Jesse, keeping his bed warm back at home--and sets his jaw, grits his teeth--and nothing happens.

Gabriel lets out his breath in an angry, exasperated hiss; the chains at his ankles clang noisily as he shifts, relaxes his legs, lets his body hang again. It makes the ache in his shoulders that much more acute but is worth it to let his fatigued calves have a break--remove one pain, to add another.

“Who are you?” he asks, to the resounding darkness; now that the footsteps have halted, he can hear nothing over the noise of his own unsteady breathing. The silence is unnerving. “What do you want?”

The dark does not answer. Gabriel startles as fingertips run down the length of his flank, from the top of his ribs to the cut of his hip--a light touch, almost curious, far more gentle than anything he was expecting. He bites his lip to will away the shiver.

“I said, who are you?” he repeats, trying to force more strength into his voice, embolden himself against the uneasiness fluttering in his gut. And still the fingers continue, sweeping slow and lazy over the ridges of his abdominal muscles, across the dip of his navel. Feeling him out--testing his muscle mass, his strength? Gabriel hopes so.

When the fingers drift lower, into the vee of his hips and down, down, until Gabriel can feel fingernails scratching through the thatch of coarse and curly nestled between his thighs--that’s when he jerks, writhing in the bondage like a snake, a live wire. The fingers jerk away, and all Gabriel’s struggling really earns him is more fatigue, a new stitch in his side like a knife under his ribs when he pants for breath; because the fingers soon return, lighter than before, ghosting across one twitching muscle in his thigh and raising goosebumps along his skin.

Gabriel gnashes his teeth; rages against his helplessness, the sheer unorthodox methods. In his mind he knows it’s the wrong choice to make, knows that tiring himself out is only going to hurt him in the long run--but a stranger’s hands on his body, so intimate and close like they _belong_ there, is enough to shake him to the core.

He’s been through interrogation training, torture survival training. And nothing ever mentioned this.

“What do you want,” Gabriel repeats, his voice coming out strained and angry through grit teeth. The hand idly petting over the inside of his kneecap stops suddenly, the fingers slowly curling inward. He can feel the bite of nails pressing insistently against his skin, tiny pricks of pain; just barely hears another noise, a kind of electric buzzing, followed by a low, animalistic groan.

Then the punches return, with a vengeance. 

They catch him off guard--two swift blows to his stomach before he can brace for them, knocking the air from his lungs and sending his body swaying with the force behind them. He’s grabbed by one hip and held still, motionless, while the punches continue to come, a fray rained down upon his body in a seemingly endless, tireless tide. Held fast by chain and his captor’s iron grip, Gabriel can do nothing but hang there and take it, try to harden his fatigued muscles against the oncoming assault. 

It continues for what seems like an hour--just hit after hit after hit, each knocking the air from his body, settling more bruises onto beaten flesh, busting his skin open. When it finally stops, Gabriel is left winded and reeling, hanging from the chains with his head slung down low while his shoulders heave. His whole body aches; but his torso, his ribcage, feels like it’s splintered into a million pieces. He sucks in short, shallow breaths that scrape along his lungs like broken glass, and swallows down the taste of copper rising in the back of his throat.

“You asked me who I am.” The voice is low, hoarse; gravelly, and a pitch Gabriel would recognize anywhere, in the very depths of his soul. It’s a voice he’s heard many times before, whispered into his ear--soft murmurs during the worst days of the SEP, desperate shouts over the _ratta-tat-tat_ of machine gun fire.

A voice he thought long dead and gone, after an infiltration in Uganda gone wrong, seven years ago. 

“Morrison,” Gabriel breathes, disbelieving--and earns another punch for it, a fist slammed up under his ribcage. Bile surges in his throat, spills acrid over his tongue to pool against his grit teeth, drips down his chin in thick strings when he parts his jaws to breathe.

“Not anymore.” The assailant-- _Morrison_ , Gabriel’s mind screams, _it’s Jack, it’s Jack_ \--snarls it, with the heat of anger just starting to bleed into his otherwise emotionless tone. The betrayal, the confusion, hurts almost as much as the punch to Gabriel’s solar plexus; his body snaps inward on instinct, trying to protect against the blow, but the chains hold firm.

“Jack,” Gabriel chokes out, because he doesn’t know what else to do--no handbook ever said anything about what to do when a long lost lover returns from MIA status to torture you. “Jack-- _Jack_ , s-sol--”

“No, you fucking idiot,” is what Gabriel hears in response, before he feels the sack over his head being torn away, revealing him to the room. It takes a few bleary blinks for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting--there’s only a single bulb hanging overhead, and it throws the all-grey room into dark shadow. But when he looks to his right Gabriel can’t seem to breathe, his lungs have seized and his heart stopped, because there’s Jack, there he _is_ , it’s been years but _there he is_ \--

But it’s _not_.

Jack--not Jack--stands by Gabriel’s side in the black and red uniform that Gabriel knows now to belong to Talon operatives, the suit snug against his muscled form. His hair has started to lighten since Gabriel last saw him, clumps of light grey streaked through the messy, short-cut blonde. Most of his face is hidden by a visor of glowing red and brushed chrome; it casts an eerie glow to his face, accentuates the thick scar arching up between his eyes, toward his temple. He looks different, Gabriel will admit--a far cry from the Strike-Commander he used to be, in his glory days of bold blue and gold--but Gabriel has been at Jack’s side, had Jack built in as a piece of his very soul, for too long to not recognize him under any circumstances.

Gabriel’s chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with the punches, and everything to do with missed opportunities, not-so-accidental contact, words left unsaid on late, dark nights. He thinks briefly of Jesse, and the hurt doubles.

“Jack,” he tries again, the name feeling coarse and clumsy on his tongue--stale, like something left behind and ruined, rotten. “Jack, what--what happened to--”

“I told you, that’s not who I am.” His voice is angrier now, darker; he prowls around Gabriel’s hanging form sinuous and catlike, a hunter stalking his prey. His visor gleams, an angry red thing in the dark.

“My name is 76. You will address me as such.” Gabriel tries to twist to watch Jack-- _76?_ His heart can’t settle on an answer--stalk around him, but finds he can’t move enough in the chains to do so. He’s forced to hang there while 76 circles around him, each step slow, purposeful, and loud in the silence of the room.

“I was given new life by Talon,” 76 says, finally coming to a halt when he’s back in front of Gabriel; the glowing visor hides his eyes, makes him look inhuman. _Like an Omnic,_ Gabriel thinks, barely suppressing a full-body shudder. “Taken and made better than I could ever be. Repurposed, and shown the best path for my success.”

“Brainwashed,” Gabriel corrects, and earns another blow to his sternum that leaves him choking on nothing. He blinks away the tears that make his vision blur, and gasps, “Jack, we--we can help you, it’s--”

“I said, _that’s not my name!_ ” 76 all but roars it, and slings another heavy fist into Gabriel’s gut, pulling a garbled cry from his lips. Gabriel lets his head hang and tries to breathe through the pain, tries to control the rapid flutter of his lungs; tries to ignore the crackling sounds as he sucks in painful gulps of air and the blood he can taste on the back of his tongue. 

76 grabs his hair--jerks his head up, until the light of his visor so close makes Gabriel’s eyes sting. It sparks faintly at the edges, little crackles of light and electricity that make 76’s head jerk like he’s in pain.

“I’m not your beloved Jack, you fucking idiot,” he hisses, his voice made rougher and almost metallic-sounding by the mask; angrier than Gabriel can ever remember hearing him, but Jack’s voice all the same. “My name is 76, and I’m Talon’s best tool--and since you can’t seem to get that through your thick skull by me telling you, I guess I’ll just have to show you, won’t I?” He lets Gabriel’s head go, and steps back, one hand reaching for his belt; and Gabriel thrashes in the chains again as he watches it be unfastened, looks away because he can’t bear the thought of what comes next.

“What?” 76 taunts, coming up behind Gabriel and grabbing at his hip, nails digging in again against the crest of his bone to halt his squirming. “Don’t tell me the thought doesn’t excite you, _Gabi_. I’m not your Jack anymore, but I still have some of his memories--still know just what you think of him, the things you two got up to when you were alone…”

His voice drops to a low purr, the metal of his visor cold against the back of Gabriel’s neck when he brushes up against him. His strong arms wrap around Gabriel’s waist, thumbs sliding into the waistband of Gabriel’s boxers as he growls, “I wonder how many times you dreamt of this happening, _Gabi_...of Jack just coming up to you, taking what he wanted from your body…”

Gabriel shudders--bites his lip, closes his eyes, tries to will down the nausea and faint hints of arousal that rise in his belly in tandem, unbidden. Jack’s hands are cold, the callouses rougher than he remembers as his boxers are jerked down, leaving him shivering in the cold room. Thick fingers wrap around his soft cock--jerk it in earnest heedless of his gasping, squeeze and roll over the spongy head until Gabriel can feel himself start to get hard in 76’s uncaring hands. The edge of a nail catches on his slit, a white-hot flash of pain that ramps up his pleasure; he chokes on the breath in his lungs, bucks his hips up, and tries to swallow down the embarrassed whine that leaves his lips when 76’s hand goes slack.

“Ah ah, Gabi,” he murmurs as he pulls his hand away completely, leaving Gabriel’s cock to droop flushed and heavy with its own weight, drooling a string of pre-cum from the tip. Gabriel clenches his teeth and closes his eyes tight, fighting with himself to keep from bucking up and rolling his hips against the empty air, chasing that friction. “You still don’t get it--I’m not your Jack. I’m much, _much_ worse.”

The fingers, spit-slick and insistent at his hole, come as an unwelcome surprise. Gabriel jerks away from them like a whip, startled by the sudden, sharp pain prodding at his most intimate of places. The tips of two fingers breach him, and Gabriel can’t help but think that once--a long time ago, before that fated mission, before Jesse and the life he’s built now--Gabriel would have welcomed this, encouraged it, even if it came with a little pain. But now, it’s nothing more than a cruel parody of what he had wanted, a harsh reminder that this _isn’t_ his sun, his stars, his Jack. 

His strangled, inarticulate cry as the fingers prod deeper, stretch him open, is ignored by the stoic face looming over his shoulder--lit by the visor’s glow, both achingly familiar and heartbreakingly alien to him, now. 

Jack’s face, on a man called 76. Jack’s fingers screwing into him, plunging deeper on each thrust; 76’s calloused hands slapping his ass when they bottom out, prolonging the pain, making it sharper. Jack’s voice in his ear, breathless and dark, sinister on a man Gabriel doesn’t know any more.

“You like that, _cariño_? Shhh…” The Spanish is strongly accented, clumsy like Jack’s always had been; but meaner, coming from 76’s lips, on the heels of his chuckle. His free hand comes up to Gabriel’s chin, strokes along the line of his scruffy jaw in a touch that’s painfully gentle. “Don’t worry--I know you do. And there’s plenty more where that came from.”

The fingers leave him abruptly--Gabriel chokes back a cry as they’re all but ripped from his body, and lets his head hang, feeling the abused muscles of his torso flex and ripple as he heaves for breath. Only a few racing heartbeats pass before he feels another touch, warm contact against the worked-slack, sore rim of his hole; and this time, it’s much bigger than fingers.

“Jack,” Gabriel gasps, jerking his head up, panic shooting hot through his core--no, _no_ , Jack couldn’t, not even like this, _he couldn’t_ \--

But 76 can.

One snap forward, and Gabriel can’t hold back his low, pained groan; another roll of 76’s hips, and he bites down on the noise, forcing it out as a keen through gritted teeth. 

“Jack this, Jack that.” 76’s voice is mocking, a mean, irritated snarl; he digs his nails into Gabriel’s hips, leaving white crescents pressed into his skin. “Can’t you ever shut up about him? He’s gone!” 

Another snap of those strong, sturdy hips, and Gabriel can barely hold back his cry--the insistent, dry friction against his most intimate of places is sickening, hurts in the raw kind of way that has his stomach twisting with nausea. 

“J-Jack, please…” Gabriel gasps it, his voice a strangled, weak thing, hands curling into tight fists where they’re held aloft by chains. “Please... _stop this_ …!”

And--to his relieved, immense surprise--the harsh thrusting, the quick and ruthless motion, actually stops. The room is silent but for Gabriel’s harsh, labored breathing and the whistle of air moving through 76’s nose, the faint buzz of his visor. They stay like that for a few quiet moments, locked together by 76’s strong muscles and Gabriel’s fatigue, the chain overhead, and Gabriel barely dares to breathe as his mind races. 

Was Jack actually considering stopping, thinking about letting him go? Did Jack actually want to escape, and bring Gabriel with him, run back to Overwatch and safety? Were they going to break out of here, get Jack help, return to how they used to be? Gabriel’s heart is lodged in his throat, disbelief and elation coiling in tandem in his belly as 76-- _Jack_ \--slowly moves away. He hardly dares to believe it: he’s gotten through to Jack, finally. Reached the long-lost lover, the kind soul, that he knew was still held hostage in 76’s body. He lets out the breath trapped between his teeth.

“Jack…” 

And then there’s a crack like lightning, a loud buzzing noise--light flashes from the visor in wild, sporadic arcs, a burst of white-blue color that’s painfully bright in the dim room. Gabriel jerks his head to the side, eyes squeezing shut against the blinding display, and grinds his teeth as he listens to the strangled-sounding, almost feral howl that’s torn from 76’s throat.

_“No!”_

Gabriel yowls as those nails bite into his hips again, 76 clutching him tighter and immediately resuming his punishing, brutal pace on Gabriel’s helpless body, pounding into him--if possible--even harder than before, as if to make up for his lapse. The pain comes before Gabriel can brace for it, racing quick and hot up his spine, along his fingers--out through his mouth on a hoarse scream, and he can hear 76 behind him, huffing and gasping like he’s hurting just as badly. Gabriel wants to lash out at him, wants to pull himself free of the chains and fight off the monster that wears Jack’s face and brutalizes his body, _kind_ soul be damned; and instead all he can do is curl his toes and clench his fists and endure, bite down on another cry before it can spill past his lips and taste the blood on his tongue.

 _“Jack,”_ he groans, voice cracking--and one hand snaps up from off his hips, claps over Gabriel’s mouth with nails that dig into his cheek. Gabriel’s muffled noise of surprised protest is drowned out by the ragged snarl in his ear.

“Say that name one more time, and fuck getting intel--I’ll slit your throat right here. Do you understand me?”

Gabriel swallows thickly, and when the hand digs in, crushing his lips against his teeth and cutting those sharp nails into the skin of his cheek, he offers a quick nod--he doubts the threat is idle. And after a moment 76 relents, slowly moving his hand away and settling it again on the crest of Gabriel’s hip, using the grip there to pull him back into another sharp thrust.

“Good,” 76 growls, resuming his thrusting at a slower, more leisurely pace--it still feels like grinding sandpaper along Gabriel’s hole, like 76 is spearing him open with every roll of his hips, but the most he can do is twitch and whine at the pain and try to hang on. “You _can_ listen--so listen to this. You’re here for intel, and nothing more. Which means, if you don’t _put out_ , you make yourself--and your life--useless. Worthless.”

He leans in closer, and Gabriel screws his eyes shut tight at the warm wash of breath over his ear, the voice so similar to Jack’s that hisses, “If you think I’d have a problem killing you, you’re sorely mistaken, Reyes.”

Gabriel opens his mouth to reply--but all that leaves him is a strangled hiss as 76’s thrusting picks up into an urgent pace, his hips snapping forward with enough power to make Gabriel rock noisily in his chains. He can feel warmth slowly seeping down his thighs, and for a moment he’s confused by it; he knows 76 hasn’t cum yet, hasn’t finished to end this long-suffering torture that he’s endured. 

76 seems to notice the wetness too, and glances down--and then laughs, a noise cruel and mocking, and Gabriel flinches at the feel of a hand fumbling carelessly between his thighs.

“Look at this.” 76 holds his hand up for Gabriel to see, to show off the crimson that coats his fingertips--and then he drags his fingers across Gabriel’s face, painting his cheek with grisly red lines. Gabriel jerks back from the contact, his mouth open to protest and a snarl on his face, but it does him no good. 76 chuckles again as he drags his hand down, smearing the remains of faint crimson over Gabriel’s chin and down his throat. 

“Looks good on you,” he murmurs into Gabriel’s ear, a strained quality to his voice as he continues his pace--though his motions are jerkier, each roll of his hips more urgent. Gabriel fights down the bile rising in his throat and closes his eyes, grits his teeth as 76 adds, “Brings out the nice tones in your skin...I think I might just paint you up more. Mark you as my little plaything, in your own blood, so that everyone here knows just who you belong to. Would you like that-- _Reyes_?”

Gabriel tries to reply, but his protesting choke is lost under 76’s snarl of completion, the gravelly, hoarse moan he lets out into Gabriel’s ear. His hands scrabble at Gabriel’s hips and jerk him close, rolling his own up to press them together flush, until Gabriel can even feel the minute twitches of 76’s balls as he spills into him. He shudders at the feeling--feels a pang of anguish deep in his chest at what this could have been, had Jack not been lost to him--and bites down on his whine as 76 finally eases away, leaving Gabriel sticky, wet, and achingly _empty_.

“That was a good start,” 76 tells him fondly, dragging his stained fingertips across the dried bloody lines on Gabriel’s cheek before giving him a pat. The visor glints, ever inhuman, as he continues, “But now that you’ve had fun….the real work can begin.”


End file.
